


Promise of Reunion

by H_W_Star



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas chapter, Cute, Garry - Freeform, Garry catches a cold, Garry has too much fun with Santa hats, Garry owns a lot of tea, Garry to the rescue, Gen, Ib - Freeform, Ib gets to doctor him, Some angst, Sweet, Tags May Change, Weiss is subjected to festive persecution, a bit of hurt/comfort, and if you don't love cats you should still read the story, continuation of an ending, implied minor character death, one-shots (first part is the setup), pretty much canon-compliant, probably a cat eventually, tree decorating, who doesn't love cats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-23 22:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8345158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H_W_Star/pseuds/H_W_Star
Summary: Something terrible happens to Ib, but Garry is to the rescue, providing safety and protection for a scared girl whom he knows has a brave soul. After the first part, a series of one-shots about life following what happens in said first part. Based on the first ending for the game, Promise of Reunion.





	1. The Beginning from the End

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of these characters and have no claim to them. The dynamic between Ib and Garry was something I really loved about the game (among several things), and I just felt a desire to write something involving them. I also am a fan of the idea of Garry being a sort of guardian to Ib. Thanks to all who stop by for a read, and hope you enjoy.

_Dear, are you alright?_

_Sweetie, are you hurt anywhere?_

_Hi, hun, we’re just going to check you really quick to make sure you’re not hurt. Okay?_

_This may sting for just a sec, but it’ll be over really soon. Ready? One…two…three…_

All she hears is noise. Deafening noise. Sometimes it’s people talking, asking her questions, voices from the paging system. Other times it’s sounds, beeping, screeching from machines, loud alarms ringing across the floor. And in the time when there is no noise, the silence screams in its place.

All she does is stare. She does not respond to the people constantly nudging her with their voices. She is silent and does not speak. If she were to open her mouth and contribute to the noise, she will tip the scale of her surroundings into ear-splitting.

All she sees is white. There are white walls, white ceilings, a vast sea of white coats and white hair. A collection of Q-tips. It gives her no sense of _here_ , as if she is just floating in some immense expanse of nothingness. Nothing to ground her, nothing to hold on to, nothing to keep a grip on. So she doesn’t hold on, and lets her grip slip. It reminds her of when she used to sit on the soft red couch in her living room, from where she would rest her feet, cocooned in socks, on the table a short ways away. After a few moments her feet, made slippery by the soft material covering them, would begin to slide off until they lost hold completely and dangled off the couch once more.

Although she does not respond, she understands what the Q-tips want. She can see the unasked questions in their eyes. They probably believe she is too traumatized to answer anything right now. They want to know about what has happened at the house. She wonders if the house is even still standing. The flames looked so hungry they must have devoured the whole thing. And her parents…Of course they all want to know about them. Whether or not they survived. The thought enters unbidden into her mind. She doesn’t want to think about it, but it pushes through anyway, past all her defenses guarding against such a notion, with so much might that it forces a tear to slip softly down her cheek. A nearby nurse sees the small wet streak paint the young girl’s fair skin and calls something out across the room. Soon there are more people crowding around her, suffocating her vision until it is suffused with that blinding white. She closes her eyes.

The noise is louder, if that’s even possible. She wonders how it can be. She will soon be blind and deaf. She has no idea how long she has been here. It could be several days, a few weeks, a month maybe? She cannot say. All she has known is the noise, the stares, and that perpetual white. Those, she affirms, are hardly adequate ways of judging time. Something pokes her in the side again. The discomfort, she debates, may however be a fair method. It seems to come on a more regulated basis, although that may perhaps be a gracious exaggeration. Something always seems to be prodding her, scanning her, examining her. The rubbery latex of gloves is cool against her skin.

She squirms under the touch, hopefully indicating her dislike of the contact. It doesn’t bother her on its own, it is just coupled with the persistent nature of such contact. She wishes to be left alone, if only for a little while. It seems ironic to her nine-year-old self, that although she is in a hospital, she cannot get any respite. She would like to sleep. Yet the lights are so bright, the voices so loud, and the whiteness still there. It seems to be bleaching all other colors from her memory, and she finds it increasingly easier to believe that the world has always been white, and that any other notion she had previously hosted in her mind was just an illusion.

It soon gets a little too much to bear. Her world is overflowing with yelling, and beeping, and whiteness and glaring light. She realizes she is drowning in it all. The fear seizes her, an unknown but menacing creature in these strange waters. Its icy steel claws dig into her skin, the cold seeps into her body, chilling her bones, and she is engulfed in panic, pulled under by the monster.

“Excuse me, ‘scuse me, let me just slide right through here, excuse me, pardon me, would _you just move please!_ ”

The voice dips delicately into the black waters submerging her. It cuts through the depths with silken precision, and envelops her in warmth. Her head is above the waves now; she can see and hear once more. This voice is different than the cacophonous roar seconds ago. It is low, and gentle, and smooth. Or at least, that is how she usually knows it. Right now, it is higher, impatient, and a touch angry. This is an unusual fact as she knows the owner of the voice to not normally take to anger. Frustration, maybe. Yet this is definitely anger. It interests her, and playfully beckons her curiosity.

Although she knows there is no danger, she is still afraid to look up. It is not the same fear with biting grip and icy darkness from moments before; it is more tame, and less threatening. In truth it is more a hesitation. She is nervous, too, to look up and see the person assigned to that voice. Her heart aches slightly at the thought, but this is not enough to convince. She is restless, though, and torn. A storm is raging inside her chest, and heart, and head. Caught in a tempest, and with only meager navigation.

“Ib!”

That does it. Her head shoots up at the call, at that voice so full of relief and hope. Her eyes search for the source, and are met with violet hair, the long midnight-blue coat, and kind eyes filled with equal concern and gratitude. It is a striking contrast to that expanse of white. Their gazes lock, and he runs a hand through the violet once before squeezing past the last few remaining people in his way, shooting semi-irritated looks in their direction. He mutters one last thing under his breath—Ib suspects it is something about the inconsiderate obstacles—then races to kneel down by the uncomfortable bed she is on so that they are eye-level. He is very tall, after all.

And Ib can’t help herself. Her own joy and relief at seeing him launch her into the familiar, safe arms. The arms that had shielded her from murderous sculptures, vengeful portraits, and countless other horrors not too long ago. He hugs her small frame tightly, and she feels protected for the first time since being brought to this overwhelming place.

“Hey,” he says softly, gently. She lifts her head a bit to look at him and he smiles. He looks no different than last she saw him. “I did promise we’d see one another again, didn’t I?” She nods, and begins to smile back. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“I’m so sorry about your parents, Ib. As soon as I heard I immediately tried to find you. It must have been scary for you.” She would say this place could hold a fair candle to what happened, but only continues listening. “Are you hurt or injured anywhere? Are you in pain?”

She starts to shake her head, but then the noise (for which Garry has been an excellent buffer) rises up again to deafening, and she ducks her head down into his shoulder to escape it. She can feel the white surrounding her again, and her grip tightens on Garry, seeking refuge. He looks down at her with new concern, and then understands. Ib doesn’t have to look at him to know it. He nods; she can feel the movement by the top of her head. His arms move to cradle her body, and she wraps her own arms loosely around his neck, still refusing to look around.

As he stands, he says softly, “I’m getting you out of here,” and the words flood her with such strong relief it almost brings tears. Yet all she does is give a small sniff into his neck, and he hugs her once more before preparing to navigate again through the tight throng.

One of the doctors recovers from the shock, calling, “Sir? Sir! Sir, you can’t do that!” The white coat breaks away from the group and starts after them. Garry pays him no mind, however when a few more join the first, hollering all the while, he turns on his heel to face them. Ib has never seen or heard him truly angry before, though she suspects this would be pretty close.

“Listen, you pompous cotton ball, you and your colleagues have done nothing but poke and prod this girl, while she has been alone in this enormous, loud hospital, for almost three days, and have clearly found out nothing. In less than three minutes, I have concluded with certainty that she is neither hurt nor injured. So, I am going to take her home. Call me a family friend. Your job is done, though granted you didn’t do much. Good day.” With that, he turns once more towards the exit.

Another doctor flings himself in their path, in a last-ditch effort to stop them. Ib makes a small sound, but Garry hugs her in reassurance.

“Don’t worry; I’ll have you know I once faced off with various deadly pieces of artwork and made it out alive. I think I can handle a few medical staff.” She can hear the playful cocky grin in his voice, and she smiles and hugs him back, pressing her face into his shoulder. She had not doubted his capability, just had been worried about the seemingly incessant pursuit by the doctors. Yet now any anxiety is gone, and she feels silly for even being worried in the first place. Garry’s presence is an unspoken promise of safety and she knows he will not let anyone hurt her.

“I know how brave you are, Ib. There’s no way I’ve forgotten your help with the phenomena at the museum. I promise we’ll be okay. I won’t let anything hurt you.” She chooses to look up at him as he says this, and he smiles kindly, but there is also firm determination in his eyes. She narrows her eyes and nods in response, indicating she is just as determined. He smiles once more, and declares, “Let’s go.”

Garry fixes the already-ebbing sea of white with a strong, firm look that leaves no room for argument or protest. He then turns and pushes open the hospital doors, and walks out.

“My house actually isn’t that far from here; it’s within walking distance,” he says once they are out of the building. He looks down at her (as he has since put her down and now they are walking side by side) and a more serious tone enters his voice. “Ib, even though something terrible has happened, I’ll make sure that from now on you have a happy life and that you’ll never have to know sadness like that again.” She looks up at him, and his eyes suddenly get a little wide, and she sees the self-doubt there. “Uh, but, Ib, you know you don’t have to come with me if you don’t want, I kinda just whisked you out of there without even asking what you wanted, and so if you don’t want to--”

She cuts him off with a light—but pointed—kick to the leg, and looks at him with crossed arms and narrowed eyes. Garry blinks, and then laughs.

“Of course, sorry for doubting,” he says, and when Ib reaches for his hand he takes it. They continue on their path to Garry’s house, hand-in-hand, with the sky beginning to open its door for dusk to enter behind them.


	2. "The World is Quiet Here"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib finds a sanctuary of sorts, complete with books, comfy chairs, pillow forts, and peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own neither of these adorable characters. Thanks to all who stop by for a read. :)

Garry’s house is very cozy. That is the first thing Ib had noticed when she arrived, and it had stayed true even days later. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she had been worried she might not like the house; that it would feel weird, or uncomfortable, or strange. But as soon as she had stepped in, guided by Garry—who was smiling in nervous anticipation; she had guessed that he must have had his own concerns—any anxiety had disappeared, and she had gazed around with wide eyes, completely captivated by her new surroundings.

It is well-lit by beautiful lanterns, which shine brightly but comfortingly around the house. It is not too large—ever since the gallery, Ib has been a little wary of particularly large spaces—but it also maintains a warm atmosphere. The décor is mostly artwork; this does not surprise Ib, and upon seeing all the painted canvases and glass sculptures she can easily see what motivated Garry’s visit to the gallery. Whilst taking everything in, Ib catches a slightly concerned look in Garry’s eyes once more, and responds with a questioning one in hers. He seems to hesitate for a moment, then speaks.

“The…artwork. Does it, well…does it bother you, Ib? Don’t worry about hurting my feelings just because it’s my style; please, be honest. I still remember what happened in the gallery with perfect clarity, and I understand if these paintings and sculptures are bit upsetting to you.” Ib looks up at him and sees the worry painted all over his face, just like the art on his walls. She gives a small smile and shakes her head; the artwork is not upsetting at all. In fact, she finds it very aesthetic. It gives character to the house, and while it does remind her of the gallery, it only brings back memories of the good parts. She definitely can recall the less-good parts, and such parts were frightening in the moment, but they do not scare her anymore. The beautiful brush strokes on each canvas, the delicate glass curves of the sculptures…it makes her feel strangely at home here, and she hopes she has conveyed that to him. It seems she has, as he smiles.

“Okay. I’m glad you like it.” With that, he had taken her hand and had begun to give her the ‘official tour’ as he called it (and assumed a tour-guide persona for the entire thing, which made Ib laugh quite a bit).

~~~

Ib’s favorite part of the house is the library. The atmosphere is soft and warm, and each time she steps through the carved wooden door frame, a cozy feeling gently blankets her. It is one of the most comforting feelings she has felt, and it always manages to calm whatever worries or fears she may have.

The walls are so covered with bookshelves that the deep red of the painted walls is hardly visible under the concealing top layer. Ib loves to run her fingers along the delicate spines, feeling the smooth book covers against her skin. The room is also slightly populated by a few comfy chairs and one couch, which she likes to lay on sometimes while she reads. She also enjoys using the cushions and pillows to make forts, aided by Garry, who steadfastly claimed he was more than qualified in pillow-fort-architecture. (“How could you doubt me?” he had said, with mock hurt in his voice; this prompted Ib to giggle in a rather uncontrollable manner).

The library swiftly becomes her own kind of sanctuary, the place she goes to either relax or feel comforted or just enjoy the pleasure of reading. Garry has books on all kinds of things—science, fantasy, history, fiction, and by all kinds of authors, most of which Ib has never heard of but whose writing she loves to read. Whenever she is not particularly hungry, Garry always remarks that her appetite is better satisfied by books. And Garry’s cooking is always very good; perhaps instead of pillow fort architect, he should have become a chef.

It is a space Ib loves to be in, and tries to as much as possible. Yet her favorite thing about the library is not the chairs, or the books, or even the poorly-constructed pillow forts (despite Garry’s so-called ‘qualifications’). It is when Garry reads to her, in the chair closest to the wide window which at night has a perfect view of the moon and stars. It does not matter what book he chooses, Ib simply loves listening to his voice as he reads. It’s low, and gentle, and very often lulls her to sleep, resulting in her falling asleep on Garry’s lap more often than not. Of course Garry doesn’t mind; each time he cradles her against his chest and gently strokes her hair because it helps her sleep more peacefully. Some nights he even falls asleep as well, and anyone happening to see this particular scene would find it rather amusing: Garry open-mouthed, snoring, drooling just a little, with Ib curled up against his chest, sleeping serenely in his arms. While the young girl has found safety and warmth in this new home, this is what comforts her the most.


	3. "It's Okay Now"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib has a bad dream, but unfailingly Garry is there with comforting arms and reassuring words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from a quote of Garry's from the game, sorry if it's a little cheesy.   
> Neither of these characters belong to me. Also, sorry it's been forever since I updated.   
> Thanks to all who stop by for a read, and enjoy this sweet little moment.

_Everything is too hot. She opens her mouth to try and scream, but only wracking coughs come out as a thick cloud of something fills her mouth and nose, pervading her lungs. It makes her double over, trying to dispel the foul substance from her body. Straightening once more, she sees that the smoke has compromised the visibility of her surroundings, and she can just barely make out the now-shadowy shapes of her house’s furniture._

_Where are her parents?_

_Adding to her mounting fear is the panicked urgency to locate her mother and father. They should be in their room, but…_

_She races down what she thinks is the upstairs hallway, and anxiously throws open the first door she finds. But it’s just the bathroom, and so she turns around and feels along the wall for the next door. Before she can reach the end of the hall, there’s a muffled groaning sound from the floor and suddenly the wooden boards in front of her collapse, leaving a gaping hole too wide for her to even try to get over. The panic in her chest rises as she races down the stairs—nearly tripping several times—to desperately search for her parents downstairs. The smoke has almost blocked her throat, making it impossible to get any sound out, let alone words, and she is forced to blindly and mutely search the first floor._

_Yet replacing the tenebrous smoke now is a glowing orange, which she very clearly understands to be fire. Backing away, her foot catches in another hole, and she trips and falls against the wooden floorboards. She feels the sharp sting of pain in her back, but also notices the orange glow growing brighter, and struggles to pry her foot free. The smoky gray cloud surrounding her has almost been completely taken over by bright angry flames, hungrily consuming everything they touch. She has almost forgotten about her trapped foot as she sits frozen in place, the light of the flames reflected in her widened eyes. Fear and panic constrict her chest and throat in addition to the smoke, and as the flames draw nearer all she can do is let out silent screams._

~~~

                A cry pierces the quiet silence of the house, and Garry wakes with a jolt. His eyes take a few moments as they adjust to the darkness, and he blearily looks around the room, trying to recall what woke him. A low sound—muffled sobs, he realizes—is coming from down the hall, and Garry gets up and quietly makes his way down the hall, following the sound as it becomes slightly louder the further he goes. He stops outside of the room next to his (though down the hall a little), with its door slightly ajar; Ib’s room. Pushing the door open gently, he makes out a small huddled lump of blankets curled up in one corner of the bed.

                The small figure underneath is shaking a little, and Garry walks up and gently removes the blanket-shield covering the small girl, gathering her up in his arms. Her shoulders shake as she cries, and he holds her because he knows it’s about her parents, and he has known she was going to have to let it out at some point. To be honest he is surprised she has held it in this long; she is strong, as always.

                Ib buries her face into Garry’s shoulder, feeling comforting arms wrap around her as he holds her tightly, protectively. She is grateful for his understanding, undoubtedly, but what comforts her most in this moment is that he’s just here, with his hands gently cradling her frame and his voice softly whispering to her that it’s okay.

                After a while she stops crying, though her eyes are watery from leftover tears. Garry gently brushes the hair from her face once more before moving to get up and return to his room, but is stopped by a small whimper and a light hold on his sleeve.

                With a small smile he says softly, “Alright, I’ll stay,” and when she looks up at him he adds, “And I won’t leave once you fall asleep, either. I promise.” This seems to reassure the girl, and he lays down on the bed—albeit a bit awkwardly, as the bed is a bit small for his tall frame—and Ib curls against his chest before giving a final sniff into his neck. He rubs her back soothingly, listening to her breathing even out as she falls asleep. Not long after he too gives in to slumber, and the two sleep peacefully, with the soft glow of moonlight in the night sky.


	4. Sick Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garry catches a cold, and Ib takes care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I'd like to first make the announcement that I am not dead, although it probably seemed that way until now. I am so sorry for how long it has been since I updated (not just this work, but literally anything). I've been away from my computer and also just finished my first round of exams, so I haven't been able to make a lot of time to write. I will try to be better at updating things in the future. That being said, I have another round of exams coming up. I might be pressed for time, but we'll see how it goes.   
> Relating to this chapter, I decided to introduce their cat. There will be an eventual chapter about how/why they get him, but I felt like writing this little one shot with him just being a normal part of their household before writing more about how he became that. Also, with his name, I just kind of ran with it; to me it sounds bookish but artsy, and extra points if you can identify the inspiration for it from the game ;)   
> If you're still with this story, thanks for your patience, and hope you enjoy :)

Garry is sick.

Ib had woken to a strange noise coming from down the hall. Despite it being early on a Saturday morning she hadn’t been sleeping too deeply, and when she had first heard it she lifted her head up to try and hear it better. Weiss had been sleeping as well, curled up at the foot of her bed, but as she sat up she noticed his ears were pricked and his head was raised. She had heard the sound again, and thus decided to swing her legs over the side of the bed and go figure out what the cause of it was. As she got up, Weiss had watched her suspiciously, as if trying to determine whether or not it was worth his trouble to accompany her. Ib had rolled her eyes and smiled; he liked to put up a front, but she knew he would eventually jump off and follow her. Sure enough, she had been two steps out of her room when she had heard the soft thud and the padding of feet behind her.

As she had walked further down the hall, and closer to Garry’s room, she had recognized the noise as coughing. Getting closer, she had heard sniffles as well, and as she gently pushed the door open she identified the hacking heap of blankets as Garry. Unfortunately, a very sick Garry.

Thus on this early Saturday morning Ib finds herself with a sick Garry, and no real idea how to fix him. She is a very intelligent young girl, but in her nine years the only experience she has had with taking care of someone is when she played doctor with her stuffed animals. And somehow she doubts a plastic stethoscope and some gauze stolen from the cabinet will fix the issue this time. She approaches the side of the bed and as she does so the blanket-cocoon shifts, and a head of slightly-tousled violet hair pops out.

“Morning, Ib,” he says, but it comes out as a croak, and is punctuated immediately after by a sneeze. Ib hands him a box of tissues, and he takes it gratefully.

“Thanks,” he rasps, and wipes his nose before continuing. “Oh, Ib, you probably shouldn’t come too close. I don’t want to get you sick too.” At her look of concern he adds with a slight laugh, “I feel fine though. Don’t worry.”

Ib raises an eyebrow at him. Weiss, who had at some point jumped up on the bed, gives an unconvinced meow. Garry laughs again, though it sounds a bit scratchy.

“I see neither of you believe me. Well, that’s fair enough. I probably look pretty awful.” He puts an arm over his mouth as he coughs again, and as he catches his breath once it’s over he wipes his nose once more. “I’m sorry Ib, I know I promised to take you to that museum today, but I’m not sure--”

Ib cuts him off with a shake of her head, and he smiles.

“Thanks for understanding. But, just because I can’t go out doesn’t mean I am incapable of doing things around the house. I can make breakfast. Are you hungry? I can make waffles, crepes; I think we have some pancake mix…” As Garry moves to get up, Ib stops him by standing in front of him and fixing him with stern eyes. Weiss meows again, adding his own disapproval. Garry looks at the two of them.

“I can’t very well stay in bed all day.” Ib simply looks at him. “What, are you going to take care of me?” Ib nods determinedly, prompting a laugh from Garry. Realizing she’s serious, and after a moment of consideration, he relents.

“Alright, Doctor Ib, I’ll stay in bed.” She nods in approval, and he laughs again. “What do you plan to do as I stay in here?” She gives him a look. “Okay, I guess I’ll have to trust you,” he says with an amused smile. He endures another coughing fit before continuing, “Just remember to be careful if you’re going to use things like the stove, okay? I know you know your way around the kitchen but some of that stuff can be dangerous and I don’t want you to get hurt.” She nods once more, in a way that tells him not to worry, before walking towards the door. As she is about to leave the room, she turns and looks back at Weiss, who is still sitting on the bed and deciding whether to keep watch over Garry and make sure he stays in bed or to go with Ib to the kitchen. Garry softly nudges the gray cat with his foot.

“Go help her,” he says. Weiss flicks his tail and studies Garry doubtfully, but jumps onto the floor all the same. With a final meow—a warning for Garry to stay put—he follows Ib out into the hall and down the stairs.

The raw echo of Garry’s cough prompts Ib to first find something to soothe his throat. She remembers her mother making her tea when she used to have a sore throat, and thus starts searching Garry’s cabinets. She can reach and open most of them, but has to climb up on the counter to access those that are too high. Weiss watches her warily from his place on the ground, and Ib rolls her eyes at the feline’s lack of faith in her.

At the fourth cabinet she finds the tea, although is surprised she hadn’t sooner as it looks to be near-bursting. Each shelf is stuffed full with boxes and tins of tea packets, to the point where a few spill out as she opens the cabinet door. One falls to the ground near Weiss, spooking the cat and making him jump. Ib laughs at this before turning her attention back to the mountains of tea.

Unfortunately, just as she is not a medical expert, Ib is not a tea connoisseur either, and thus has no idea which one to choose. The descriptions on the back of the containers, and the questionable opinion of the long-haired feline next to her, do not aid her decision. She therefore opts to lay them all out and gauge the best one herself, a task that swiftly proves difficult thanks to the cat walking through her hard work and effectively ruining half of it. (She supposes, though, that at least saves her some time, as that has now eliminated half of the options). She eventually narrows it down to two kinds, peppermint tea and a lemongrass-ginger blend. After staring at the two for a solid five minutes, as if expecting one of them to step forward and identify itself as the right choice, she decides to go with the lemongrass-ginger tea, recalling something she’d read in a book that described the healing nature of ginger for a sore throat.

After grabbing a tea packet, Ib takes a mug from another cupboard and brings it over to the cooler. Garry has the kind that offers both cold and hot water, and she puts it under the nozzle for hot water and watches the steam rise as the water fills the mug. Once it’s done she puts the packet into the mug, and uses a spoon to swirl it around. She also adds some honey for an even more soothing effect. She leaves both the spoon and the tea packet in the mug as she puts everything away and proceeds to climb the stairs, Weiss at her heels. The cat is wise enough to stay a little ways behind in case the girl accidentally spills a few drops on her way to Garry’s room.

Ib knocks on the door before gently pushing it open wider and walking in. She walks to the side of the bed and hands the warm mug to Garry, who sits up and accepts it with a grateful smile.

“Thank you, Ib. I appreciate it.” He leans down slightly and sniffs the tea, trying to guess its flavor. “Mm, it smells like lemongrass and ginger. That’s actually one of my favorites.” After taking a small sip, he adds, “And of course it’s delicious. This is great, Ib. Thank you again. I can already tell I’m feeling better.” With the last part, Garry jokingly flexes his arm. Ib rolls her eyes but smiles, happy that Garry is feeling well enough to joke. She thinks he might want something else in addition to the tea, maybe a broth or something of the sort, and so starts to turn in the direction of the door.

Garry seems to read her mind, and stops her by saying, “The tea is enough for now, Ib, no worries. I might get up and make something a little later--” at her concerned expression he is quick to continue, “something simple, I promise. But for now I’m actually quite happy to just stay here and enjoy the tea. I meant it when I said it’s delicious, and I think it’s really helping.” He is right; Ib has noticed that his voice has become less scratchy, and he is not coughing as much. After another sip, he adds, “Besides, I think the only book I have even related to cold remedies is _Chicken Soup for the Soul._ Not much good that will do us.” Despite her concern for Garry’s health, this makes Ib laugh a little. Of course he doesn’t have any cookbooks; he has an entire library, yet not one book amongst the seemingly-unending collection is devoted to food. The irony is not lost on her.

Garry looks at her again and says softly, “I really appreciate this, Ib. Thank you for taking care of me.” Ib gives a small smile. They take care of each other.

From his place on the chair next to the bed, Weiss meows loudly to remind them both he is there as well. Garry chuckles and Ib goes to pet the apparently attention-starved cat, then gets an idea. Before Garry can really say anything she rushes out the door. Arriving at the doors to Garry’s library, she gently pushes them open and enters, target already in mind. Surveying the walls of bookshelves, she quickly locates the two she is looking for, and carefully extracts them from their place, as if unearthing ancient artifacts.  With the books tucked safely under one arm, she makes her way back to Garry’s room. Weiss had chosen to stay behind for this particular excursion, opting instead to curl up on top of Garry’s legs. As Ib reenters the room, the feline’s ears prick up, and he looks up slightly from his position, not entirely committing to the action of raising his head all the way. Garry opens his mouth to speak, but closes it in understanding once the book is set down gently on his lap.

Ib has chosen two copies of Wilde’s _The Portrait of Mr. W.H._. The covers and spines of both are worn from recurrent use, yet the pages within still maintain that old book smell. This is a book Ib comes back to often; she first found it as she was perusing Garry’s collection of classic authors, and pulled it out on a whim. While reading it, she had been enraptured by the mystery and depth of the story, appreciating it especially for its interaction with art and literature. She had run to Garry, quite unable to stop talking about it, and he had told her with a soft smile that it was one of his favorites. After that, Ib finds herself pulling it from its shelf from time to time and rereading it. It comforts her, and she is always willing to be swept up in Wilde’s writing once more. On a subsequent browsing expedition, Ib had discovered another copy of the book and pointed it out to Garry, who had laughed and then declared one copy to be Ib’s official copy and the other to be his. In his disconnected and uncoordinated ‘calligraphy’ (as he tried to claim it), Garry had written their initials inside the covers of their respective copies, the silver pen he used lurching across the paperback surface.

Ib gazes at the letters, watching how they seem to glimmer slightly in the soft dim light as she traces over them with her finger. Garry smiles at her choice of reading, and shifts into a more comfortable position. This disrupts Weiss’ current position on his legs, and he gives an irritated half-meow as he is now forced to readjust. Ib is the kind of person to always adjust herself to accommodate the feline, not the other way around; many nights she is left only a small sliver of her bed because he has chosen to sprawl on top of nearly its entirety. Garry, however, has gotten to the point in his relationship with Weiss that he no longer cares that his shifts in position inconvenience the cat and moves around anyway. While this is by no means pleasing to him, Weiss finds a way to deal with it.

Ib settles into her own position as well, choosing to lay on her stomach across the foot of the bed with her legs crossed in the air.  It forms a comfortable scene; Garry relaxed against the pillows, book and tea in hand, Weiss nestled comfortably on the blankets next to him, his tail flicking Ib in the nose every now and then, and Ib settled at the foot of the bed, where Garry can see her face light up when she gets to a part she likes. Although it had started out rather miserably, Garry thinks that for a sick day, it hasn’t been so bad.


	5. Art Comes In Many Forms (Holiday Chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ib and Garry decorate their tree in a unique manner all their own; Weiss is subjected to what he likely considers cruel and unusual punishment. For the holidays, what matters is what they do, not necessarily how they do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi kids   
> My apologies for the eons it's been since I last updated; unfortunately life responsibilities have a nasty and annoying habit of piling up super quick   
> Regardless, I have emerged from the dregs to give you a festive addition to this ongoing fic. Happy Holidays everyone! 
> 
> P.S. Neither of these two characters belongs to me. If you've stayed with the story this far, thanks for stopping by for a read, and hope you enjoy!

 

                Her eyes are glued to the window, her mouth slightly open in what is not quite an O, but almost. Her father used to always joke that she would catch flies if she stood with an open mouth for too long. She is staring outside, entranced by the flurry of snowflakes swirling about. It is not her first time seeing the small white sparkles, but each year she gets to watch them it feels as though it is. They are her favorite part about the winter season, and she and Garry have already gone out and made snow people. She had been smart to take the small and safe route, which yielded a tiny but sturdy little snow boy whom she lovingly decorated with an old, tattered scarf and a small straw hat. It was a tad far from the traditional outfit, but that didn’t bother her. She had to smash the stereotypes somehow.

                Garry, on the other hand, hadn’t been so wise. He had apparently set out to make something like a colossus, but it hadn’t quite worked out for him, as his creation ended up a pile of clumpy snow scattered about him as he knelt on the ground in defeat. Thus, outside their house is an interesting scene comprising of a small but cute snow child, a small form that had been her attempt at a likeness of Weiss, and a haphazard pile of snow bits surrounding the two. It is certainly unique, but she and Garry are particularly proud of it. After all, art comes in many forms. (At this quip of Garry’s she had rolled her eyes, but couldn’t resist laughing at his goofy and ridiculously pleased smile). 

                “You’re gonna catch flies if you keep standing there like that.”

                The voice jolts her from her reverie, and she turns with a slightly sheepish expression to see Garry coming into the room, in an olive green turtleneck sweater and a mug of steaming-hot something in one hand.  He smiles and gently tousles her hair, extending the mug out to her.

                “Okay, ready? I’ve got: hot cocoa, extra marshmallows, with just a _little_ bit of cinnamon on the top. How’d I do?”

                Ib laughs, amused at his efforts but also very touched, and takes a sip after allowing it to cool off a bit. She nods, giving Garry her seal of approval.

                “Nailed it,” he says, and does a weird fist-pump move in the air, which makes her laugh even harder. He raises a playful eyebrow at her.

                “Are you making fun of me?” he asks. Ib shakes her head in adamant denial, but it doesn’t seem to convince him and he sweeps her up in his arms and tickles her until she can’t breathe from the giggles. Her cocoa had been set down, and when he finally lets her go she takes it back up and sips it again. Garry settles himself on the couch, and out of (probably) some remote nook Weiss appears to perch on the couch’s arm, tail swishing.

                “Wanna decorate the tree today, Ib? I finally found some of the ornaments! Turns out they were in the basement; I totally thought they were in the attic…”

                She turns to look at their tree, comfortably nestled in the corner but completely bare. Looking at Garry she nods eagerly and smiles. He can see the excitement in her eyes. Weiss meows, voicing his support of the idea.

                “Oh, don’t act like you’re not just going to try and knock everything off,” Garry admonishes, running a hand through the cat’s long, silken fur. The maine coon innocently licks his paw. With a good-natured eye roll, Garry gets up to retrieve the ornaments from the basement. Ib is about to go help him, but when all he emerges with is one singular box, she sits back down.

                “Ahh…All I have is this one box of stuff; my family kept most of the rest,” Garry says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. She shakes her head, indicating this is more than fine. It isn’t about how much they have; all that matters is that she and Garry get to do this tradition together. He gives her a warm smile, and opens the box to start handing her ornaments to place wherever. Ib enjoys this method of chaos and not caring; it proves to be a very fun system of decorating. Garry puts a few up as well, on the higher branches where Ib can’t reach. Within the box of ornaments there are also, for some reason, quite a few Santa hats. Though strange, it turns out to be useful when they discover they have no star to top the tree; they decide to just use one of the several brightly-colored hats instead. Much like their snow creations, it isn’t quite traditional, but it is theirs.

                “I’d say it’s quite a work of art,” Garry says, standing back to admire their work. “It does come in many forms, after all. As an obscenely talented artist myself, I should know.”

                Ib raises an eyebrow at him, and he laughs.

                “Well, I’m getting there, anyway.” Ib hopes he does not intend for this to be his debut piece, but he seems to read her mind as he says, “But don’t worry; this is a Garry original that’ll just stay between the two of us.”

                A whined meow comes from the couch.  

                “And you too, of course,” Garry says, going over to pet the cat. However, the feline’s response is an offended flick of the tail, and Garry groans. “The traitor, he’s going to spill our secret.”

                Laughing, Ib comes over to pet him as well, in reassurance that he is indeed loved and appreciated, but suddenly gets an idea.

                Rummaging in the ornament box, she pulls out a Santa hat that seems to be slightly smaller than the rest. The gray-haired cat stills as it is placed on his head, and struggles to remove the foreign object. It is a fight he does not win, however, and irritably resigns himself to his laughable fate.

With a swish of his tail he jumps off the couch; Ib watches him warily. In an apparent (but not entirely unexpected) plan of retribution, Weiss begins to drag his tail across the lowest and most accessible level of the tree, with a few occasional flicks against it. Ib glances at Garry, who is sifting through the ornament box curiously, then turns her attention back to the vengeful—but now festive—feline. With a pointed tilt of her head towards Garry she fixes the maine coon with a displeased look.

                Weiss stares at her for a minute, unblinking, before he finally moves away from the tree with one last meaningful flick of his tail. Smiling, Ib gathers him up in her arms and pets him lovingly. When she hears the familiar purring sound, she smiles wider. She knows the fight is likely not over, and if she’s being honest she won’t be surprised if she wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of something shattering. But right now, on this cozy evening only a few days before Christmas, with Weiss curled up on her lap and Garry putting on a ridiculous holiday-themed skit with the excess amount of hats, she’s more than alright with that.


End file.
